


Bad Romance

by OperaGoose



Series: Old FFNet Fics [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John writes terrible romance novels, M/M, attempt at comedy, fictional RPF AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 15:00:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OperaGoose/pseuds/OperaGoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The other (not really) infamous Sherlock fic of mine - Writer!John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Romance

**Author's Note:**

> Transposed from FFNet with deleted author notes.   
> Written 2010-2012

Title: **Write A Bad Romance**   
Category: TV Shows » Sherlock   
Author: OperaGoose   
Language: English, Rating: Rated: T   
Genre: Romance/Humor   
Published: 11-03-10, Updated: 01-07-12   
Chapters: 10, Words: 17,110 

* * *

**Chapter 1: Prologue**

* * *

_Mary sighed, looking away from her best friend. "He left a message for me, you know?" She told Grace, "Left a letter in my jewellery box – he told me I had to move on if he didn't come back."_

" _Oh," Grace said softly, "well, that's..."_

" _Completely insensitive and such a wanker thing to do." Mary growled unhappily. "I love him, Grace! Our love was epic! It was supposed to be me and him, forever! I'll never love anyone else as I did him." _

_Her best friend frowned, lips pursed slightly. "Sure." She agreed tightly. "Sorry, Mary – I just remembered this thing I had to do. Call you later, yeah?" She offered, before gathering her coat and racing out of the cafe._

_Had she been a little less consumed with her grief, Mary may have noticed how peculiar her best friend was acting. Instead, she let her tormented gaze drift – only to find them locked on a pair of intense blue eyes. Slowly but surely, she began to take in the face around them._

_He was all angles and planes, with cheekbones to die for and cupid-bow lips. Her breath caught in her throat and she_

"Hold on!" 

John Watson took his fingers off the keys with an outraged scowl. It was the final chapter of his tortured love-triangle novel and he'd just forced Mary Freeman's boyfriend Oliver Porter into faking his own death – what the hell was he doing introducing another obvious love interest? 

Growling in frustration, he deleted the last couple of paragraphs and went to start again. 

_Grace looked heartbroken. "Look, Mary – I know. I know how much you loved him, but if he wants you to move on, then maybe—"_

" _Sorry to interrupt, but your coffees, ladies?" A deep baritone cut through the brunette's sentence smoothly._

_Mary turned to glare at him, taking the time to read his name off the name-tag so she could scold him properly. "Look, Ben—" She had started in her best pissed-off voice, but as soon as she met a pair of striking blue eyes she_

"No!" John snapped impatiently, yanking his hands away again. He deleted the latest section while the mental image of Mary in his head pouted unhappily. 

" _You just lost Oliver! What's this about?" The author growled, infuriated._

_Mary sighed, eyes glazing over as she took in the errant character. "He's beautiful."_

John balked at his own mental scenario. Sure, the image of of the brunette male in his head _was_ incredibly good looking (his descriptions really couldn't do the visual justice), but Mary had just split with the love of her life – what was she doing falling for this 'Ben' character? 

" _Benedict Cumberbatch." The man introduced himself smoothly, winking at the author._

" _I don't care what your name is!" The author yelled angrily, "Get out of my novel!"_

" _Sorry," Benedict dismissed with a smirk, "not going to happen."_

John growled and limped his way to the kitchen for a mug of strong coffee – he was going to need it. Whoever the hell the character who just waltzed in was, John _would not_ let him invade the novel. He simply wouldn't allow it to happen! 

* * *

**Chapter 2: A New Flatmate**

* * *

"So, let me get this straight, dear - Mary is going to end up with this Brendon character?" Mrs Hudson asked, closing the manuscript. 

"Benedict." John corrected awkwardly. He took the manuscript and folded the edges carefully. "Do you buy it, Mrs Hudson? Because if you don't, my editor definitely won't." 

"Well, it's a bit unexpected, but the way you've written it works." The older woman answered gently. She gave him a sly grin, "He certainly sounds irresistible." 

John frowned. "You have no idea." He muttered. The Benedict in his head grinned triumphantly. 

"It's good, dear." Mrs Hudson said soothingly, patting his hand before whisking away their teacups. "I'm putting the room upstairs up, John, as you suggested." 

"Good, good." He answered distractedly. 

"You do realize it means you'll have to share the living area, dear?" She pointed out. 

"As long as they don't touch my desk." John conceded with a smile. He stood and kissed Mrs Hudson on the cheek. "I have to meet my editor. I'll be back later." 

"Take a brolly, dear. The weather looks like it'll take a turn." She called as he pulled on his coat. 

"Goodbye Mrs Hudson!" He called pointedly, before closing the front door firmly. He hailed for a taxi and set off towards his doom. 

...   
The advantage of being a trashy romance novelist was the fact that the people who read them weren't particularly fussy about meticulous editing. The teenage girls and lonely housewives cared more about the angst and sexual tension than sentence structure and vocabulary choices - except when it came to describing Mary's romantic interests. 

The lack of intense editing meant that the novel was published almost unbelievably quickly. By the time his relief at the break was wearing off, his first flatmate had already been and gone. Donovan Salazar was a snarky accounting student with a compulsive need to clean. After the draft of his backburner novel had ended up in the shredder, John had him evicted. 

"So, John - murder mystery or romance this time?" Mrs Hudson asked, pouring him a mug of tea. 

"I'm trying for the murder mystery. Since Donny shredded my only copy, I'll have to start from scratch." John replied, taking a long drink. "Found a new tenant yet?" 

"I've got an old friend of mine coming to look this evening." She answered. "I should warn you - he might be a bit difficult to live with." 

John smiled as he finished off his mug. "Anything as long as he doesn't touch my desk." He promised sincerely. John was not a difficult man to live with...generally. He didn't care when if their rent was a little overdue – he had money enough to spot them for a few weeks. If they were slobs, his own writer's-block induced cleaning frenzies soon took care of that. He was a submissive television partner and could both cook and appreciate take-outs. The _only_ thing he was adamant about was his work-desk being left alone. He didn't think it was too much to ask for. 

His forays into the internet had resulted in a wiped hard-drive too many times to count, so he'd developed a habit of keeping hard-copies of everything. It did not help when people like Donny took it upon themselves to clear away scraps of paper. 

"I'll stress the importance of him leaving it alone." Mrs Hudson conceded gently, before taking his cup. "Off to work with you – you've got that look about you." 

John laughed and obeyed the instruction. 

His leg ached as he navigated the stairs, but he reminded himself that he would have a day sat at work in the most comfortable desk chair in the world and soldiered on. He paused, wincing at his own vocabulary choice, before he finished the journey. 

Four hours later and the only words he had typed into the word-document were: 'Worn with pain, and weak from the prolonged hardships which I had undergone,' it wasn't even a full sentence! He rubbed at his face tiredly and closed his eyes. 

_The first image that came to mind was a brilliant grin and a pair of intense blue-grey eyes. "Hello."_

_The author jerked, unsettled. "Benedict? What are you doing here again?" He demanded suspiciously._

" _Contributing to your writer's block." The brunette answered casually._

" _That's not helpful." The author pointed out._

" _No, it isn't." Benedict agreed calmly. "But Writer's Block rarely is."_

John growled, refusing to be beaten by an imaginary, cocksure brat _again_! 

He deleted his part sentence and started again: 

_There was a lofty chamber, lined and littered with countless bottles. Broad, low tables were scattered about_

"And this is the living area." Mrs Hudson's voice broke his tremulous concentration. "This is the kitchen and the bathroom is through there. Your bedroom is upstairs." There was a slight pause, and John felt eyes on him as he continued typing. 

_There was only one student in the room, who was bending over a distant table absorbed in his work._

"That's the other tenant, John. Best not to disturb him while he's writing." Mrs Hudson advised gently. 

"And _that's_ The Desk." A smooth baritone commented dryly. The capitalization was obvious in his inflection and John found himself scowling at the jibe. Was it really so ridiculous to have _one_ part of the house to himself? 

"Yes, dear." Mrs Hudson confirmed. "Shall I show you to your room?" 

"Excellent idea, Mrs Hudson." Replied the other man, before the sound of retreating footsteps left the living room in silence. 

John sighed and scrubbed at his face again. With an annoyed grunt he stood up and groped for his cane. He just _couldn't_ remember the opening to his novel. He'd just gotten it perfect for the manuscript and shoved it out of his mind. He needed coffee. 

He limped towards the staircase. "Off out, Mrs Hudson!" He called upwards, before clambering awkwardly down the stairs. The empty word document would be there when he got back. 

Unfortunately. In his head, Benedict Cumberbatch was grinning. 

* * *

**Chapter 3: Strange Icebreakers**

* * *

Benedict Cumberbatch leant across the counter as John ordered his double-strength latte, giving the woman behind the counter a smouldering look. He caught the light to his advantage, bringing out the red-blonde hints to his short, wavy hair and making his blue-grey eyes glow. The barista was oblivious, mostly due to the fact that all of that was happening in John's head and not in real life. 

Shaking his head at his own antics he thanked the cashier and headed to a table by the window. 

_Benedict posed in the seat across from him, fixing him with a determined expression. "So, I think you should be writing a sequel to my novel." He suggested, grinning._

_The author shook his head firmly. "I've got other things to work on. More important things." He answered._

" _Oh, but think of the things you could do with me!" Benedict insisted, grinning eagerly._

_A slow smirk formed on the author's face, before he launched over the table and tied the grinning antagonist to the chair with thick ropes._

" _Didn't realize you were this kinky." Benedict commented dryly, before a thick gag was forced into his mouth._

_Finally blessed wit some mental silence, the author turned back to more important matters._

Three hours later, John limped back to 221B Baker Street with a triumphant expression, a handful of napkins covered in handwriting and a pouting Benedict in tow. "Mrs Hudson! I'll be needing a late dinner!" He called towards the landlady's apartment as he limped up the staircase. 

"I'm your landlady, dear – not your housekeeper!" The familiar quip came back. 

"Something from the shop will do!" He replied, throwing open the door to 221B open and freezing the instant he saw the inside of his flat. 

It was now littered with boxes and piles of newspapers, a second armchair squeezed across from his. A glance into the kitchen showed the bench-tops now covered in an elaborate chemistry set that looked worryingly professional. He turned with sinking heart towards his desk – there was no way anyone who caused this much chaos in their shared living area would respect his boundaries with The Desk. 

But they had. He shifted guiltily at his own assumption and crossed to the desk, already digging out the first scene of his novel from his jacket pocket. The empty word document was still glowing on the screen, waiting his new development. He unfolded the first napkin eagerly and began transferring the words onto the screen. 

_Rupert Graves entered the run-down building, stepping between his quietly working officers as he made his way to the room where the body was being examined by the forensic team._

_The lead scientist looked up at him with a grim expression. The dark-haired man with pointy features stood, gingerly walked around the body and approached his Detective Inspector. "As far as we can tell, there are no marks on the body." He reported. "No identification."_

" _Same as the others." Graves agreed, turning a brooding gaze towards the dead man curled up against the wall in the other room._

" _Exactly the same." The scientist agreed, before turning away. As he collected more evidence bags from an eager assistant, DI Graves heaved a sigh and took out his mobile phone. The scientist caught sight of this as he headed back into the room and paused, a look of reluctance spreading across his face. "Um, you're not phoning...Him, are you?"_

_Graves looked up at the head of the forensic team and scowled. "Watch your tone." He commanded coldly._

" _Because we can handle this!" The scientist insisted, "We can absolutely handle this."_

" _You've got work to do." Graves answered coldly, turning his attention back to the mobile in his hands with an air of dismissal._

_The scientist sighed, defeated, and went back into the room._

_Graves lifted the phone to his ear, listening as it rung once before diverting to voice male. "This is Detective Inspector Graves. Please call me as soon as you get this." He said into the phone, turning to look at the body squeezed against the wall. "I think we're going to need you."_

John leant back against his computer chair, grinning in triumph. So, it was a very short start to his detective novel, but he thought it was better than his previous version. 

"Tea?" A deep voice asked from across the room. 

John jumped in his seat and spun wildly to find the voice of the interruption. Spread out across his couch was (he hoped) his new room-mate. His romanticised mind immediately went off on a tangent – he was wearing a previously impeccably pressed suit, with the cuffs rolled up to his elbows. He had shockingly pale skin – even for London's winter. He was reading a German-language newspaper, successfully obscuring his face from the writer's view. 

"Pardon?" John managed out eventually. 

"I said 'tea', thereby implying the offer to make some." The other man answered in a flat tone. "You've typing at a steady rate since you sat down until now – either you've finished typing up whatever it is on those napkins or you've decided to take a break. Either way, it seemed like an appropriate time to – what's the term? – break the ice." 

"By offering tea?" John asked, unnerved. 

His new flatmate turned the page of his newspaper without ever revealing his face. "Yes." He agreed flatly. 

"You didn't think introducing yourself would be a better start?" The writer asked, bewildered. 

"Sherlock Holmes." The other man supplied, sounding bored. "I'm a private detective." He added in the continuing silence. 

"I'm—" John began. 

"Doctor John Watson. You were an army doctor, trained at St Bart's, invalided home from Afghanistan. The novel you wrote at your therapist's suggestion was picked up by a small publishing house and since then you've released six novels with Mills and Boon under the name of Denise Arthur, your latest being 'Sides of a Love Triangle'." The paper shuffled again, but John was unsettled when his room-mate still didn't reveal his face. "So, tea?" 

"How did you know all that?" John asked nervously. 

"I told you – I'm a private detective." 'Sherlock Holmes' answered impatiently. 

John's laptop chimed, announcing an email and when he turned to glance at it, his new flatmate was up and moving. By the time he had turned back around, he could only see the back of a head walking toward the kitchen. The detective's hair was dark brown, almost black, and fell in unruly curls. He was tall, (six-foot-something, but John had always been bad at judging height) and very, very slender. He strode with a purposeful walk that exuded confidence and in his head, Benedict Cumberbatch began to match it. 

"White with two?" Sherlock called. 

"How did you—?" John began, uncomfortable. 

"It's _always_ white with two." Sherlock commented dryly. 

John chuckled at his own paranoia and turned back to the unopened email. It was from his publisher – something about a surplus of fan-mail to collect? He sighed and stood up, gripping his cane in a loose fist. "Sorry, I'll skip the tea – off out." He called, before leaving the apartment and his strange new room-mate. 

* * *

**Chapter 4: That Awkward Moment When**

* * *

"It was the Cab Driver." 

John froze, fingers stilling on the keys. He clenched his fists, closing his eyes. "How do you know that?" 

He had been in a writing fervour for days, writing and rewriting everything that came to mind. The main character was a shameless self-insertion - he hadn't even bothered to come up with a different name yet (he'd fix that in his first rough edit). So far, Doctor Watson had been cornered by DI Graves and begged to help. The Doctor had been reluctant to co-operate, John alluding to an uncomfortable history between the two of them. Eventually, Doctor Watson had been drawn in by the possibility of further victims, and set out to examine the previous victims at St Bart's morgue. 

Even though he'd written past that point into Doctor Watson's examination of the crime scene, he was back in St Bart's, reworking the corpse examination. Doctor Watson had been walking down the hallway when his flatmate had spoken up, breaking his concentration. 

He was ashamed to admit he hadn't spoken to the other man other than the occasional small talk since their very first conversation. Even now John couldn't confidently say he had seen Sherlock Holmes' face. 

He turned from the computer and found his flatmat leaning over a bunsen burner, welding mask obscuring most of his face. 

"I read your draft of the crime scene. It was obvious," the other man commented, not turning away from his work. 

John took a deep breath as he turned back to the computer screen. The one word sunk into his consciousness. 

Obvious. 

He slammed his head against the keyboard. Behind him, he could hear the slight shift of Sherlock Holmes turning to look at him. Growling in frustration, he closed the lid of his laptop with a rough jerk and stood. "I'm going out. Leave a light on," he snapped, shucking his jacket on. 

His flatmate turned to look at him, "John, I didn't—" the deep baritone began hesitantly. 

"Goodbye," John called pointedly, before stomping out of the flat. 

He found himself at the familiar coffee shop, where a barista chuckled and immediately began making his usual. He tucked himself into a booth, scowling at the mess of sugar sprinkled over the table. 

_Benedict Cumberbatch slid into the booth across from him, face adorned with a bedazzling smile. "How's things, John?"_

_John scowled at him hatefully, turning away. "You bloody well know how thing are going!" he snapped._

" _Ah, yes," the brunet agreed, "dismally. I'm here to help you with that."_

" _How could you possibly help?" The author demanded icily._

" _Well, the problem with your novel," Benedict began matter-of-factly, "is that it's too commonplace, yeah? A borderline incompetent detective force, an outcast specialist with a dark history but a heart of gold and a terribly predictable story line."_

" _Is there a point to this?" John demanded coldly._

" _Well, yes. What you need is me!" the brunet declared happily._

_The author narrowed his eyes stonily, "what could you possibly have to contribute to my novel?"_

" _I will be your extremely handsome, incredibly intelligent consulting detective that Graves eventually calls on for help."_

" _Okay, first of all – there's no such thing as a consulting detective. Secondly, **I'm** the one that DI Graves calls on for help!" John protested angrily. _

"Having trouble?" A familiar waitress asked as she brought over his coffee. She was wearing an amused grin and a blank nametag. "Sorry, you just always seem to come here and zone out whenever you're having trouble with your novels." 

"I'm predictable," John muttered angrily, "great." 

She laughed. "I didn't mean it like that. Anyway, here's your double-strength latte, two sugars mixed in as it pours. Want anything to eat today?" He shook his head. "You never do," she added with another laugh, before disappearing back towards the counter. 

With a huff, he picked up the paper cup and left the store, leaving a smirking Benedict and the correct amount of change at the booth. He didn't want to head back to the flat, so he took a long walk about Tourist London, eavesdropping on whatever conversation he could understand for possible inspiration. 

When he eventually limped back up the stairs to his flat, his new flatmate was in the pantry, digging around for something or other. He sat in his favourite armchair, draping an arm over his eyes. 

"Aren't you going to write?" Sherlock's deep baritone reached him. 

He hugged his arm in tighter and huffed. "What's the point? I'm a terrible writer anyway!" 

There was an uncomfortable sort of silence, then: "you're not a terrible writer. Who told you that?" 

"You did!" John shouted angrily. 

"I never said such a thing," Sherlock replied, sounding affronted. 

"You bloody well implied it!" the author snapped back. "You told me my novel was predictable!" 

"Actually, I told you that the identity of the murderer was obvious," his flatmate replied calmly, "that in no way implies you are a bad writer. On the contrary, you're quite the talented author." 

"Says who?" John snapped back petulantly. 

"Your fans," the private detective replied bluntly. 

John didn't bother to reply. After a few moments of silence, he removed his hand and looked around at the empty room, expecting some sort of reply. It was empty and he huffed, covering his eyes back up with a weary arm. 

There was an odd sound a few moments later, that almost sounded like...shuffling paper? 

" _Dear Ms Arthur,_ " Sherlock began, the deep baritone voice carefully ennunciating each word, " _When I began this book, I was a huge fan of yours and greatly looking forward to another of your captivating love stories. Around two-thirds of the way into this book, I was ready to throw it in the fire and send you a very stern letter and write a poor review on Amazon. It was marvelously written, true, but I could not believe you would put poor Mary through all that._

" _At the last page of chapter nine, I was about ready to tear my hair out when I learned that Grace and Oliver were going to get away with such blatant disregard for the feelings of Mary, a woman they both supposedly cared about. The last few chapters, however, completely washed all those feelings away. You cheeky, manipulative wonderful woman! All of that just so she could meet that charming Benedict. I couldn't have ever hoped for a more perfect man to pick up the pieces, or a more perfect introduction for someone who promises to be a wonderful addition to your cast of characters._

" _This has been, by far, my favorite novel of yours. Perhaps even my favorite this year. For that, I thank you, and ask forgiveness for my reactions before completion._

_Your devoted fan, Bethany Wallingford._ " 

John scowled. "Where did you get that?" He demanded curiously. 

"It was among the rest of your fanmail." Benedict replied, " _Hi Denise Arthur,_ " he began again, " _I am a big fan of your works, I have them all. I love your description of the new character Benedict. I wish I could see the image you have of him cause I'm sure my mental image doesn't do him justice. I can't wait to see what you have planned for him._

" _Poor Mary how could they do that to her? Sure breaking up with her would've hurt her but then she'd have the luxury of cursing them constantly whenever she's in a bad mood. Good luck in your writing._

" _I'm an aspiring writer so I know how bad things can get. I hate writers block. Ah look at me I'm rambling. Not sure if you'll ever get this but if you have I'm flattered._

" _Sincerely, Suezanne Lee Prest"_

"You've been in my room?" John demanded, remembering where he kept all his fanmail. 

"Of course." Sherlock replied easily. "Oh, don't look like that! You only said I wasn't allowed to touch The Desk." 

"That's a basic personal space boundary!" John protested. He attempted to glare at his flatmate, but the private detective was stretched out on the couch, his face just beyond the angle John could crane his next to. 

" _Denise Arthur,_ " Sherlock began, ignoring him. 

"Do you root through my dirty laundry, too?" John demanded. 

" _I have to say I thought the ending to this one was predictable._ " Sherlock continued, ignoring the question," _I mean, anyone with half a brain could tell that Mary was going to end up with Benedict. He was mentioned in the very first chapter! You know, Mary was eying up the hottie waiter at the start, which was so clearly Ben—_ " 

"This is your attempt at trying to convince me that I'm _not_ a predictable writer?" John demanded scathingly. 

"That's a fair point." Sherlock agreed, tossing that letter aside. "Most of these letters are going on and on about how attractive they find this 'Ben' character anyway." 

"Benedict," the author corrected at the same time as the Benedict in his head did, "he doesn't like to be called 'Ben'." 

"I mean, honestly!" Sherlock scoffed, " _With that lanky frame and those long pale fingers, who wouldn't be attracted by the way he put down that teacup? And his blue-grey eyes that seem as if they would bare all your secrets. And the way you described that hair! You can't really blame Mary for wanting to run her fingers through it. And it must be fantastic for yanking him down to her level, because there's quite a height difference. He's what, six-foot—_ " The private detective broke off. 

John groaned, "if that's one of those super-explicit letters, feel free to toss it into the fire." 

Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly, "oh, how about this one? _Dear Ms Arthur,_ " he began to recite, " _may I just say how much I enjoyed your latest book 'Sides of A Love Triangle'? I only have one complaint: it should have been never-ending! I seemed to finish it far too quickly and your ending left me clamouring for more. There will be a sequel, yes?_

" _The appearance of Benedict in chapter ten on page 154 and the detailed description that you gave were well bone meltingly gorgeous! The depth of the description you gave was fascinating, from his stormy blue-grey eyes which would seem to vary in shade from light to dark depending on his mood and his particular way of quirking his mouth, utterly sumptuous._

" _And His hair! Oh my, I have never in my life wanted to run my hands through anyone's hair, but you have given me a hair fetish to rival the most obsessed of us all._ " Sherlock paused slightly there, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. 

He cleared his throat again and continued: " _Well must be off many more of your books to devour... read even! Yours, Sam Reed._ " 

"Are you done yet?" John demanded, annoyed. 

"This one even drew you a picture," the private detective explained, taking out a sheet of paper from an envelope. He froze as soon as he unfolded it and grew very still. "I'll be back later." He announced abruptly, standing and leaving the room with a hurried stride. 

John glanced back over, sighing and going to pick up the hurriedly discarded letters. He picked up the fanart and glanced at it, raising his eyebrows in surprise. 

" _It looks like me!" Benedict declared eagerly, "well, my hair's shorter than that and not quite as curly, but it's a pretty good likeness!"_

Shaking his head at the mental image of Benedict still preening himself, he headed into the kitchen to get a start on dinner. 

**Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Your thanks should go towards my guest writers, who provided the fanmail: Glittery-excuse-for-a Fae, Suezanne and The Wall Had It Coming! I love you all for helping out!**

**\---------------------------------------------------------**

**Chapter 5: The Mycroft Interlude**

* * *

John had to admit, it was a little awkward walking into your own flat and seeing a stranger set up in your living room with a china tea set laid out on your dining table. Even more awkward when you didn't _own_ a tea set, and your dining table had previously been located in your kitchen. 

"Who the bloody hell are you?" was his eloquent greeting. 

"Ah, Doctor John Watson," the man greeted, his face split in a pleased grin, "a huge fan of your Mary Freeman novels, by the way. I especially liked that Mark Gattiss character." 

John frowned in confusion, "he only had one line." 

"Ah, and what a line it was." The stranger commented, eyes glowing. 

"Uh, 'piss off you totalitarian berk'?" John guessed, wracking his brains. 

"Reminds me of someone I know," the other man commented fondly, staring into his teacup as he reminisced. 

"My editor took that line out," the author pointed out, bewildered. 

"Did she? What a shame." The stranger replied. John stared at him, eyes going wide. He cleared his throat, "Mycroft Holmes. I've come to visit my brother but he's clearly anticipated my arrival and made plans to avoid me." 

He stood swiftly and picked up his umbrella. "Good to meet you, Doctor Watson. I'm eagerly anticipating your detective novel." He left without another word, leaving John staring at the door in pure bewilderment. 

Several minutes later his flatmate walked in, head covered by a brown paper bag. "Has Mycroft left yet?" He asked, voice muffled by the bag. 

"About five minutes ago. He forgot his teaset," John commented. 

"He usually does. It's terribly inconvenient," the private detective replied, crossing sightlessly and stretching out on the couch, "did he ask you for your autograph?" 

"No?" John answered, confused. 

"Really? I thought for sure he would," Sherlock replied dryly, "he's a huge fan of yours." 

"So he said. Did you tell him about my new novel?" John demanded suspiciously. 

"Not a word," the other man answered. 

"What did he want?" The author asked suspiciously. 

"Probably the notes for my last case," Sherlock dismissed boredly. "How is the novel going, by the way?" 

"It's not," John snapped tersely. "What do you feel like for dinner?" 

"Don't change the subject, John. What do you mean your novel 'isn't' going?" Sherlock demanded, sitting up. John felt sure that if it weren't for the paper bag, he would be on the receiving end of a very intimidating glare. As it was, he tried his best to repress his laughter. "John." The other man growled in warning. 

"Sorry, but it's hard to take you seriously with a paper bag on your head." John answered honestly. 

"Grow up, John." Sherlock commanded impatiently. 

"Look, Sherlock – the novel's just not good." John sighed and headed towards the kitchen, "Bangers and mash?" 

There was no answer, which the author took as an affirmative. So, he hadn't actually seen his flatmate _eat_ the meals he cooked, but the leftovers were always gone by the next morning. 

* * *

**Chapter 6: That Sherlock Holmes Character**

* * *

How does he make them 

take the poison? 

SH 

John had been jolted out of his daze around midday when his phone sprung to life with an unknown number. He stared at the phone for a long time, before texting back: 

Who the bloody hell is 

this? And what are you 

on about? 

He turned back to his laptop, checking his emails with no enthusiasm. His knee was killing him today and he was craving a strong brew, but the thought of crossing to the kitchen was a painful one. 

His phone chimed to life again and he sighed as he picked it up. 

Really, John, are you 

that unobservant? My 

name is Sherlock Holmes, 

and I live in your flat. 

SH 

John sighed in annoyance and quickly tapped out a reply. 

Alright, no need to get 

snarky. I don't have 

your number. Where 

are you? 

He hadn't seen Sherlock since his brother had come to visit, but the private detective's bed was slept in and his laundry sorted so he assumed the missing man had passed through while John was asleep. 

He was almost of the verge of being worried, before he reminded himself that his roommate's life was his own. Even so, he almost lunged at his phone as it announced the arrival of a new text. 

On a case. How does 

he make them take 

the poison? 

SH 

He frowned, confused, at the screen. Was Sherlock asking him to solve his case without knowing any of the details? Shaking his head to clear the confusion, he tapped the few keys that started a phone call. 

"Holmes." The deep baritone of his flatmate growled out of the phone speaker. 

John tried to ignore the shiver that travelled down his spine and settled in the bottom of his stomach. "It's John," he mumbled out awkwardly, "Watson." There was a long pause. "Your flatmate?" 

Sherlock chuckled, and John ignored the second shiver that travelled down his spine at the noise, as well as the twitching of certain lower regions. "Obviously. Hello, John." 

"Uh, hi." He replied, wondering why his mouth felt so dry. 

"Is everything alright, John?" The deep baritone asked, voice dipping impossibly lower as he said: "your breathing is erratic." 

"I'm...fine." John managed out, trying to bring his treacherous libido under control. 

The private detective's voice was back to its normal timbre as he asked smoothly: "do you have that information for me, Doctor Watson?" 

The way his voice curled around John's formal title did inappropriate things to his lower body and he nearly whimpered. Instead, he asked: "what information?" 

"The poison, John," Sherlock rumbled, "the cabdriver." 

"The cabdri—" the author broke off, staring at the wall with wide eyes, "Sherlock, is this about _my novel_?" 

"Yes, the investigation of Detective Graves." Sherlock continued pointedly. 

"You're acting like this is a real investigation so your colleagues don't think you're worried about a fictional case, aren't you?" John asked, amused. 

"Correct," the private detective answered curtly. 

"You've got to be kidding. Sherlock, I'm not writing it any more!" John protested, annoyed. 

"Don't be ridiculous, Doctor Watson," Sherlock replied, sounding annoyed, "it's highly unprofessional to leave a case unsolved!" 

"Sherlock, _I'm_ not a detective. I'm an author – do you know how many writers start something and never finish it?" John retaliated, finding it hard to justify the private detective's indignation. 

"Your excuses are not acceptable." Sherlock snapped angrily. 

"You know what, fine!" John snapped back, his own temper giving up. "If you're so desperate to know, I'll write you the ending!" 

"Have it on my desk by tomorrow evening," Sherlock commanded coolly. There was no other preamble before the dial tone sounded in his ear. 

John muttered angrily before turning to his laptop and opening up a word document with angry determination. If Sherlock was so desperate to know he'd give away the whole game! 

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to picture the scene in his head as the anger settled. 

_The interior of the room was dark as The Cabbie threw the door open with a sharp movement, letting the stark light from the hallway throw a little light into the room. He followed the murderer into the darkness and looked around, observing what he could in the lessening light as the door swung closed behind them._

_He blinked at the sharp contrast when the fluorescents sparked to life above him, throwing sterile light deeper into the room. He walked towards the light, almost instinctively, and he heard the Cabbie enter deeper at his lead._

" _Well, what do you think?" The Cabbie asked, his voice oddly childish._

_Sherlock Holmes put his arms out in a gesture that clearly said: "so this is it?"_

John blinked wildly, throwing his eyes open and staring at the last sentence he had just typed out. Okay, so he was writing it for the detective, so it made sense to feature him in the piece. But it was his picture of his still-unseen flatmate that unsettled him. The image of Sherlock in his head was familiar – too familiar, but that was because it was _Benedict Cumberbatch!_ Sure his hair was styled as his flatmate's and the clothes were the same (" _down to the mouth-watering coat!" Benedict supplied unhelpfully with a grin_ ). 

He was tempted to stop right there, but he felt the urge to continue – if only to show his flatmate up. 

" _Well, it's up to you," the Cabbie replied petulantly, "you're the one who's going to die here."_

_Sherlock turned to the elderly man, studying him with an unimpressed expression. Calmly and very assured, he replied: "no, I'm not."_

John threw his eyes back open, breath catching irrationally in his throat. Because he had just _heard_ his flatmate's voice in the back of his head and the rich baritone added to Benedict's hatefully attractive features was just too much to handle. He had just created his perfect date, and given him the name of his flatmate. 

This was bound to end in disaster. Never mind his tendency to over-romanticise everything. He was terrified to continue, afraid that he would think himself in love with his flatmate before the scene was closed. 

But his phone chiming with Sherlock's blunt text message made him swallow and continue 

_I'm not kidding, John._

_The desk, by five._

_SH_

Closing his eyes and trying to make his fingers stop trembling, he let the scene flow on the characters' own whims. 

" _That's what they all say," the Cabbie replied casually. He pointed to a seat on either side of the long trestle tables as he crossed to it. "Shall we talk?" He suggested. He pulled out a chair and sat, watching the detective as the taller figure strode over calmly and sat down opposite him. The detective sprawled in the chair, completely unfazed by the situation he was faced with._

_They sat in a silence for a moment, sizing each other up silently. Eventually, the consulting detective spoke as he pulled off his leather gloves: "Bit risky, wasn't it?" At the other man's silence, he continued: "you took me away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen. They're not that stupid." He clasped his hands, studying the Cabbie's unimpressed gaze. "And Mrs Hudson will remember you." The detective added, remembering his sharp-eyed Landlady. _

" _You call that a risk?" The Cabbie returned, dismissing the brunet's concerns, "nah. This is a risk!" In a casual gesture, he took a clear glass bottle from his pocket and set it on the polished wood between the two men. _

_Sherlock eyed the bottle. It contained a single capsule – the poison, he immediately decided. But the bottle was non-descript, and he wondered precisely what 'the risk' was._

" _Ooh, I like this bit," the Cabbie declared, a thin undertone of sarcasm under his voice, "because you don't get it yet, do you?"_

_Sherlock lifted grey-blue eyes to his opponent, expression cold. He 'got' all there was to know, it was simply a matter of requiring more data!_

" _But you're about to," the Cabbie assured him, voice going soft, "I just have to do this." Without blinking, he reached into his other pocket and set another clear glass bottle onto the table. An identical bottle. Sherlock's mind followed the meaning easily – two pills, therein lay the 'risk'. "Weren't expecting that, were you?" The Cabbie taunted calmly. _

_Sherlock ignored his barb, because no, he **hadn't** been expecting that. The facts of the case began to realign in his head, and he kept his expression stony. It wouldn't do to give away the game, now would it? _

" _Ooh, you're gonna love this!" The Cabbie mocked, leaning forward in his seat._

" _Love what?" Sherlock snapped back shortly._

" _Sherlock Holmes, look at you!" Sherlock's glare deepened, but he didn't say a word. The Cabbie would talk without prompting: it was his moment in the spotlight. "You are brilliant!" he declared, "you are proper genius!" His voice curled in a sneer which Sherlock took a careful note of. What right did this man believe he had to be bitter about that? " 'The Science of Deduction' – now that, is proper thinking." _

_The private detective tilted his head, inwardly seething at the parry towards his pride. His concept was a work of genius, and this man was spoiling it. _

_The Cabbie shook a little, but his face fell sad. "Between you and me, why can't people just think?" He looked away, "don't it make you made? Why can't people just think?"_

_Inwardly wincing at the unnecessarily bad grammar, he drew his observations from the man's words. Ah! There it was! "Oh, I see," Sherlock returned, making sure his tone was as mocking as he dared, "soyou're a proper genius too." _

" _Don't look it, do I?" The Cabbie replied, a resigned sort of sadness lingering in his words, "funny little man, driving a cab." Sherlock kept a small, mocking smile on his lips to show his complete agreement. "But you'll know better in a minute," the Cabbie continued, his voice growing dark, "chances are it'll be the last thing you ever know."_

_Sweeping aside the implications and the (frankly, rather dull) sob story, he returned his gaze to the objects on the table. "Okay, so – two bottles. Explain." He commanded loftily. _

" _There's a good bottle and a bad bottle," the Cabbie explained, his voice taking on its childish quality once more, "you take the pill from the good bottle, you live; you take the pill from the bad bottle, you die."_

" _Both bottles are, of course, identical." Sherlock observed._

" _In every way." The Cabbie agreed._

" _And you know which is which?" Sherlock prompted._

_The Cabbie sneered at him, "of course I know!"_

" _But I don't." Sherlock guessed._

" _Wouldn't be a game if you knew," the Cabbie pointed out, irritated, "you're the one who chooses."_

" _Why should I? I've got nothing to go on." Sherlock retorted, shrugging. He met the Cabbie's gaze steadily, "what's in it for me?" He demanded._

_The elderly man glared, obviously not happy with his plan being belittled. "I haven't told you the best bit yet!" He answered, unnaturally loud in the quiet, "whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one. And then together, we take our medicine."_

_Sherlock felt himself smiling, involuntarily._

" _I won't cheat!" The Cabbie promised, "whichever one you don't take, I will." Sherlock tilted his head to study the pills as the Cabbie continued: "didn't expect that, did you Mister Holmes?" _

" _This is what you did?" Sherlock asked, "to the rest of them – you gave them a choice."_

" _And now I'm giving you one." The elderly man replied evenly. "Take your time, get yourself together: I want your best game!"_

" _It's not a game." Sherlock replied incredulously, "it's chance."_

" _I've played four times! I'm alive," the Cabbie retaliated, obviously bragging. "It's not chance, Mister Holmes. It's Chess. It's a game of Chess," Sherlock arched his eyebrows as the elderly man continued his monologuing, "one move, and one survivor." He paused. "This, **this** is the move," he declared boldly, sliding one of the pill bottles forward. Sherlock stared at it, keeping his expression unaffected. "Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle?" The Cabbie taunted, "you can choose either one." _

_They sat in silent contemplation for a long moment, the detective studying the bottles for further clues as the Cabbie twitched nervously._

" _You ready yet, Mister Holmes?" He asked, "ready to play?"_

" _Play what?" Sherlock retorted, unimpressed, "it's a fifty-fifty chance."_

" _You're not playing the numbers, you're playing me." The Cabbie replied angrily. He leaned forward, "did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill?" He repeated, taunting. "Is it a bluff? Or a double bluff?" His grin was obvious in the sound of his voice, "or a triple bluff?" _

" _It's still just chance," Sherlock dismissed, unmoved by the Cabbie's antics._

" _Four people? In a row?" The elderly man reminded him, "it's not chance."_

" _Luck!" Sherlock declared._

" _It's **genius**!" The Cabbie yelled, his voice echoing in the room. "I know how people think." The Cabbie declared. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but the man continued: "I know how they think  I think _ . _" His eyes went dark as his gaze drifted off into middle ground. "I can see it all like a map inside my head. Everyone's so stupid, even you." _

_Sherlock felt the edges of his temper sparking, stilling as the insult settled. He was stupid?_

_At being on the end of the unwavering glare, the Cabbie backed down, "or maybe God just loves me."_

_Having had enough of the Cabbie's antics, he uncrossed his legs and flared out his coat as he leant on the table, hands clasped. "Either way, you're wasted as a cabbie," he mocked. _

_The elderly man's face hardened, and Sherlock knew he had efficiently underpinned the man's ego._

" _So," the detective continued, bringing his interlocked fingers up to touch his lips, "you risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?"_

" _Time to play." The Cabbie announced, discomfort at the personal turn obvious._

" _Oh, I am playing," Sherlock declared, "this is my turn." The Cabbie's face started to draw together, fear growing in his eyes. "This about your family. Your wife – she took the kids, but you still love them, and it still hurts." He frowned as he mulled over the news. "And, because of that, you've killed four people?" _

" _I've out- **lived** four people!" The Cabbie declared vehemently._

_Sherlock smirked in triumph and the elderly man's face fell cold. "Oh, you are good, aren't you?" He asked coldly, "now, enough chatter! Time to choose."_

_Sherlock gave him an unimpressed look as he looked back down at the two bottles of pills. He looked back up at the Cabbie and gave him a playful smile. "What if I don't choose either? I could just walk out of here," he pointed out._

_The Cabbie gave him a stony glare and pointed a gun at the detective's face with an annoyed sigh. "You take the fifty-fifty chance or I can shoot you in the head." Sherlock's mouth curled up as he couldn't repress his amusement. "Funny enough – no one's ever gone for that option."_

" _I'll have the gun please," Sherlock replied, still smiling._

" _Are you sure?" The Cabbie challenged, his confusion evident beneath his tone._

" _Definitely," Sherlock confirmed, "the gun."_

" _You don't wanna phone a friend?" The Cabbie asked, mocking even through obvious nervousness._

" _The gun," Sherlock repeated._

_The Cabbie swallowed and pulled the trigger._

_With a soft click, a tiny flame erupted from the barrel, and Sherlock allowed his smirk to twist up at the side. "I know a real gun when I see one." He announced, unimpressed._

_The Cabbie released the ignition, staring at the lighter hopelessly. "None of the others did."_

" _Clearly," Sherlock dismissed. He licked his lips. "Well, this has been very interesting." He declared, "I look forward to the court case." He stood up and walked away from the table with a confident stride. _

_The Cabbie slowly settled the lighter on the table and turned to watch him go. Just as the detective reached the door, he called out: "just before you go – did you figure it out?" Sherlock paused, a hand on the doorknob. "Which one's the good bottle?"_

" _Of course," the detective replied derisively, "child's play!"_

" _Well, which one then?" The Cabbie challenged, gesturing lightly at the bottles still on the polished surface of the table. Sherlock pushed the door open, intent on leaving. "Which one would you have picked? Just so I know whether I could have beaten you." The elderly man continued taunting._

_Sherlock's jaw clenched. This fool still thought he was better than him! He closed the door again and turned to glare at the Cabbie._

" _Come on!" The elderly man baited, "play the game."_

_Sherlock re-set his expression, before striding back into the room. He would play the game, and he would win it. There was no other way the story could end._

Groaning, John leaned back into his seat and rolled his shoulders. It would have to do. 

He printed out a copy and closed down the laptop. He hesitated before his flatmate's room, before he slid it under the door and left without a backwards glance. 

_..._

When he woke up the next morning, his laptop was open on a crowded word document. He frowned as he sat down, mug in hand, to read the screen. He arched his eyebrows as he recognised his own work from yesterday, up until the point where Sherlock was just unveiling his knowledge of the Cabbie's motives. His eyes widened as he read the new paragraph. 

" _Oh, I am playing," Sherlock declared, "this is my turn." The Cabbie's face started to draw together, fear growing in his eyes. "There's shaving foam behind your left ear." The detective informed him, pointing at it coldly. "Nobody's pointed it out to you. Traces of where it's happened before so obviously you live on your own – there's no one to tell you." The Cabbie closed his eyes, trying to block the pain from the detective. "But there's a photograph of children, and the mother's been cut out of the picture – if she'd died, she'd still be there." The Cabbie looked down, eyes shiny with uneasily repressed tears. "The photograph's old, but the frame is new. You think of your children but you don't get to see them." He connected all the points to their only conclusion: "Estranged Father." He speculated, just slightly to get a deeper emotional reaction: "she took the kids, but you still love them, and it still hurts." _

_He studied the cabdriver who was showing clear signs of discomfort and smiled. "Ah, but there's more! Your clothes, recently laundered but everything you're wearing is at least three years old. Keeping up appearances but not planning ahead. And, here you are on a Kamikaze Murder Spree – what's that about?" He mocked._

_He stared at the Cabbie, as the facts drew to together. "Ah," he sighed, "three years. Is that when they told you?"_

" _Told me what?" The Cabbie challenged, though it was so obvious, it may as well have been written on his face._

" _That you're a dead man walking." The detective replied._

" _So are you!" The Cabbie spat murderously._

" _You don't have long though." The detective pointed out. "Am I right?"_

John stared at the screen, where the 'mysterious ghost writer' (so obviously his flatmate) left of. He'd left that part unwritten! It was supposed to only be hinted at! 

He settled his fingers on the keys, bewildered. 

_The Cabbie stared at his lap for a moment, face drawn in thought. He looked up at Sherlock with tired eyes. "Aneurism," he announced, "right in here." He pointed to the side of his skull. "Any breath could be my last."_

" _And because you're dying, you've just murdered four people?" Sherlock tested, watching the Cabbie for his reaction._

" _I've out- **lived** four people!" The Cabbie declared vehemently. "That's the most fun you can have with an aneurism." He added dryly._

He connected the paragraphs up, and stared at the screen for a moment, wondering exactly what his flatmate meant by rewriting his piece. After a moment, his phone chimed. Hesitantly, he picked up the phone and checked the text. 

It's good. 

That 'Sherlock Holmes' is 

a very interesting change 

to the dynamic. 

SH 

John leant back into his chair, staring out the window as Benedict grinned triumphantly in his head. 

" _See?" Benedict grinned, "told you that you needed me!"_

* * *

**Chapter 7: Fevered Dreaming**

* * *

"John!" Mrs Hudson's voice scolded as soon as he stepped over the threshold. "You weren't out in _that_ were you?" 

John turned around and looked at the pouring rain. "Yeah," he replied, closing the door firmly, "for three hours." He sneezed violently and peeled his soaking coat off. "Could you put the kettle on?" He pleaded. 

"Of course, dear!" Mrs Hudson said, "you have a nice hot shower. I'll have your tea and something hot ready for you when you get out." 

"Thank you Mrs Hudson," he said, wincing when he heard how nasal his voice sounded. 

She bustled off towards her own little flat and John jogged up the stairs, sodden socks squelched on the polished floorboards. He wrapped his arms around himself, pressing damn wool and cotten against gooseflesh-skin. He was shivering before he reached the top of the stairs, sneezing violently as he opened the door to his flat. 

He could see the top of Sherlock's feet on the armrest of his sofa and mumbled a hello. He didn't get a reply, so he assumed the Private Detective was either sleeping or in one of his moods. "Don't eat my soup," he mumbled, before heading down the hallway and into the bathroom. 

He left his clothes on the closed toilet lid and stepped under the scalding hot faucet. He shivered as the warmth slowly seeped into his chilled flesh and sneezed again. He really hoped he wasn't going to get sick – he couldn't handle the fever dreams again. 

He froze when he heard the door open. "John," came the deep baritone of Sherlock Holmes, his flatmate, "I brought you some dry clothes." 

"I locked that," John mumbled, shower water falling over his face. 

"I unlocked it," Sherlock replied simply. "I brought your thickest jumper and thermal pyjamas," he explained, "I couldn't find any socks thick enough, so I've brought a pair Mrs Hudson knitted for me last year. They've never been worn, so you don't have to worry about any viral infections." 

John realised with bone-deep mortification that Sherlock's sinful voice was having a very inconvenient reaction. "Sherlock," he managed out through a clenching throat, "I need you to get out now." 

"Hm? Why?" Sherlock asked, confused. "Is this another one of your strange personal boundaries situations?" 

" _Most_ people don't walk in on their flatmates on their shower," John explained calmly. 

"I had a genuine reason," Sherlock replied petulantly. "If you'd rather run about the house in just a towel..." 

"Sherlock!" John scolded, before sneezing violently. "Sorry, I'm not ungrateful for you bringing me clothes, but I'd rather not be naked with you right now." 

"I see," the Private Detective replied. "Well...you just...shower up. I'll be out in the living room..." The bathroom door closed and John slumped against the tiles, shivering at their coolness. 

He finished his shower and dressed in the warm clothes Sherlock had bought for him. The brunet was nowhere to be seen, and John snuggled into the couch with a mug of tea and bowl of soup. He half-watched as he did his best to swallow Mrs Hudson's chicken noodle soup. 

Before too long, his awareness narrowed, until all he could think about was his aching throat and burning face. He put down the crockery and curled up on the couch, staring at the blurring tv screen as his thoughts ran away with him. 

_Benedict was cleaning tables at Mary's usual coffee haunt, bent over the table to reach the far end. His well-worn jeans were taut against the trim flesh of his thighs and buttocks, and John couldn't help but note that it was an arse just begging to spanked._

_Obedient to his wayward thought, a hand appeared in view and delivered a sharp slap to the denim-covered cheek. Benedict whirled, smirking when he caught sight of a figure that had not haunted John's thoughts since his last fanfiction project._

_Martin Freeman grinned at Benedict and drew him into a heated kiss._

John coughed as he sat up, staring around the room wildly. He was perturbed to find himself in his own room, but even as he went to move, the room freewheeled and he found himself back against the pillows, a corner of his pillow obscuring his flatmate's face. 

"You have a fever," the deep baritone informed him. John moaned in protest to the thought and buried his face in the pillow. "Mrs Hudson's popped out to the chemist to get your some medicine. Left me in charge." 

"Not sick," John mumbled in protest, coughing as his throat protested use. 

"Drink this," Sherlock commanded, pressing a plastic sport's bottle into John's shaking hands. The writer popped the top with his teeth and sucked out half the contents, gasping for breath once he'd finished and blindly handing it back to his flatmate. 

"Must of been thirsty," Sherlock mumbled. "Would you like something to eat?" 

John moaned in protest and flipped over onto his front, burying his face in his pillow. 

_Benedict and Martin sat in a pub, the latter nursing a tall pint. There was a number scratched into the wood of the bar and John, in Martin's Point-of-View, traced the digits with his fingers._

"Why forty-two?" He mumbled. 

"Forty-two what?" Benedict's deep baritone responded. 

_John-as-Martin turned his head to take in the concerned man's face and found himself breathless. He was sort of beautiful in an alien, undescribable way._

" _Well that's because," Benedict replied, his lazy drawl not quite matching his surprised expression, "I am an alien._" 

_John turned his head, only to find the pub had disappeared. "Where are we?" He asked, groaning._

" _Vorgost ship," Benedict replied. "They blew up the earth for a new road."_

"Must be Thursday," John mumbled, vaguely aware of the fact he was saying that aloud. "I never could get the hang of Thursdays." 

"Is this," Sherlock asked hesitantly, "normal?" 

John snickered. "We could talk about normal until the cows come home!" he declared, before laughing and burying his face back in the pillows. 

" _What're cows?" A very confused man (who looked very much like Sherlock's brother Mycroft) enquired._

John giggled again. "Silly Mycroft," he mumbled, "doesn't know what cows are." 

_John rolled his head back around, taking in Benedict in his Sherlock-Holmes Incarnation. "Hello there!" he greeted. "Back then? I'm almost finished our novel."_

" _Are you?" Sherlock-Benedict asked, sounding surprised._

_John mumbled his agreement. "We should go to dinner when it's published," he suggested, "it'd be nice."_

He drifted in and out of strange dreams for a while, until he was vaguely aware of Mrs Hudson's voice on the edge of his consciousness. He opened a bleary eye to see her standing beside his bed, tucking in the edges. 

"Is he always this delirious?" Sherlock was asking, sounding very confused. 

"Always," Mrs Hudson replied. "Really, dear, you don't have to sit vigilant by his bedside. He'll be fine. Go downstairs and get something to eat." John opened his eyes as the door closed, and he took in the room. She smiled when she realised he was awake. "Hello there sleepy-head," she greeted. A motherly hand passed him a shiny slip of pills. "They're just herbal soothers, dear. Should get you feeling better in no time." 

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," he murmured, popping two out of their capsules and swallowing them dry. He laid back against the pillows, drifting off as Mrs Hudson continued to putter around. 

He remembered what it was like being ill as a kid. His mother always made the best soup. "Mum," he mumbled, moaning in the back of his throat and burrowing his head down into the pillows. 

"She'll be here soon," Mrs Hudson replied tenderly, before the door closed again. 

He nodded, rubbing at his eyes. "Mum," he repeated. Where was she? She should know that he was sick. "Mum!" he called, loud enough to hear. No reply came and he rolled onto his side and felt the feverish hold of sick-dreams clawing at him. 

_Martin and Grace were sitting at the cafe, as Martin nursed a tall coffee. "I can't believe he just left like that," he told Grace. "After all we went through to be together. Telling my parents..._ " 

"Mum!" John called deliriously. Where was she? He wanted his soup! 

" _Listen, Martin," Grace said, covering his hand with one of hers, "maybe it was just time for the two of you two part."_

" _That's bullshit," Martin mumbled angrily, draining the rest of his coffee. "We were in love, Grace. There was nothing that could come between us. I just don't **get** it!" _

" _Er, sorry," a new voice announced nervously. Martin looked up to see the tall, beautiful waiter holding up a coffee pot, blushing a bit. "Refil?"_

John jerked awake. Looking around wildly at his empty room. "No," he mumbled to himself, "I'm not going to write another fanfiction about Martin Freeman." He rolled back over as his stomach growled. Where was his Mum with the soup? "Mum!" he called, before breaking off to cough. 

_Martin and Benedict were both pouting at him, the latter's tugging at his heartstrings. "Please?" Benedict begged, dragging out the word in a whine._

" _No!" John protested, "I'm not writing you a fanfiction with Martin Freeman!"_

_Benedict just shrugged and fixed Martin with a reassuring smile. "I'll convince him when he's feeling better."_

John moaned in protest and rolled over, blinking blearily at the ceiling. "Mum?" He asked. 

"She's not here," Sherlock replied, from beside his bed once more. 

"Where's Mum?" John mumbled, "want my soup." 

He was just drifting off when Sherlock's voice skirted the edge of his consciousness. "He keeps asking for his mother, can we phone her and ask her to pop around?" He asked. 

"No," Mrs Hudson answered sadly, "she died when he was high school." 

John whimpered and buried his head in the pillow, hating the information as it sunk in. "Go away," he mumbled hatefully, curling into a ball under his blankets. 

... 

Two days later, John emerged from his fever and bedroom, immediately heading downstairs to his laptop. 

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked curiously. 

John didn't look over his shoulder to find his flatmate. "Got things to write, characters won't leave me alone." 

"More of the Detective Novel?" Sherlock enquired curiously. 

"Nope," John answered pleasantly. "Much worse. Fanfiction." 

* * *

**Chapter 8: The Fanfiction Chapter**

* * *

**The opening excerpt is donated by the lovely Black-Dranzer-1119.**

' _Shit…' Martin said, as Benedict entered the room. 'Crap… Fuck… Bugger… Damn it… Fuck…'_

' _You're repeating yourself,' Benedict said in a calm contrast to Martin's distress._

_Whirling around, Martin's expression was one of fury. 'Why the fuck did it have to be you?'_

' _Excuse me?' Benedict looked delightfully confused and for a sudden moment all Martin could think about was tugging Benedict's face down and kissing him until they both passed out from oxygen deprivation._

_Then he remembered Mary._

'… _Fuck. All I wanted when I set up that bloody account for Mary was for her to find "the one" she's always yammering on about. To find some beautiful man to come and sweep her off her feet…' Damn, Martin knew he was crying now, but it took every inch of his strength to keep his throat from closing over. 'I never wanted this. I fuck… and I fuck, and I fuck and when that's not enough I have a bloody threesome.'_

' _Dear god, I hope not,' Benedict said, in a bland attempt at humour._

' _Will you just shut up,' Martin said, his voice bordering on hysterical. For once Benedict did as he was told, instead in one swift movement he closed the space between them and his lips were on Martin's in a toe curling, spine tingling, heart stopping kiss. Everything Martin was, now was focused on the point of contact and the rest of him seemed to melt away._

_When they broke apart, Benedict left his forehead resting against Martin's, his soul searching eyes fixed on Martin's own. 'I love you,' Martin whispered. 'I love you, but so does Mary and I can't betray her. She's my twin, Ben. We have practically been able to read each other's minds since birth.' Pulling away, Martin took a few steps back and tried to ignore the way Benedict's hand rose as if to prevent his movement. 'She's all that's good in me and I can't lose that, not even for you. I… Sorry.'_

_When Martin left this time, Benedict didn't follow._

John smiled at the screen. That was a particularly good fanfiction out of the multitudes that were rolling in. He usually kicked off the ball with his Martin!Freeman rewrite, and quickly other authors were flooding his personal messages with a request to use the male version in their own work. The one he had just read was an interesting semi-original turn where Martin was actually Mary's twin. Clicking to get story alerts and leaving a quick, non-committal put positive review, he clicked out of the tab. 

A soft ping alerted him to an email and John took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders and leaning back in the chair as he opened up his inbox. Another review. He shook his head with a slight smile of amusement and waited for the email to load. 

He got more reviews for his fanfiction than fanmail for his actual novel, and that was saying something. Yaoi-fangirls...they were the real adoring fans. Smiling, he read the review. 

_OhMyBen! I LOVE YOU! Love it! Love it! Love it! Cannot wait for more! Benedict makes my heart burn with sweetness. And Martin is so much more bearable than that insipid Mary character! Anyway! Love the fic! You almost write better than Ms Arthur herself!_

He chewed on the inside of his lip, closing the browsing window and returning to the fanfiction archive. He tried to ignore Mary's pouting and Martin's smug gloating. Could he really be blamed that compared to Martin, Mary was a whiny Mary-Sue-wannabe? 

She left with a huff of annoyance and Benedict gladly turned to Martin, dragging him out of the room with a lavicious grin. Martin shook his head and went back to browsing titles. 

_ That Coffee Shop : by MyNameIsNotAnthea. Featuring DoctorJohn's Martin!Freeman, used with permission. Benedict's POView – why he goes to work at Martin's local coffee spot. _

He opened it in another tab to come back to later and winced at the next option. 

_Luv U 4eva : by The Improbable One. Bendeict meets Mary + its luv at 1st site! Plz rd and review! Featuring Gatiss!_

He accidentally stumbled into one of that particular author's works before and nearly given up all hope for the teenage girls of the future, only to find out that it was a 42 year old male with far too much time on his hands. 

Yawning, he rolled away from the table and turned to find Sherlock sprawled face-down on the couch in his pyjamas. "You hungry?" He asked, unsurprised to know his flatmate had come in and not bothered to say hi. 

"No," the brunet replied petulantly. 

John arched an eyebrow. "Well, that was a bit more snippish than usual. Did I do something?" 

"No!" Sherlock snapped back, turning his back and curling up. A beat passed, and he whined out: "you already wrote Sides of A Love Triangle! Why the hell do you need to _rewrite_ it? And – as the author, doesn't it make _that_ —" he waved an irritated hand in the general direction of The Desk, "cannon?" 

John shook his head to himself. "You wouldn't explain even if I tried to explain it to you," he murmured. "This is about your novel again, isn't it?" He asked. 

"No," Sherlock huffed. John waited another beat. "Maybe," he conceded eventually. 

John shook his head. "Stopped hacking my laptop since I began work on fanfic, have you?" He teased gently. 

"Yes," the brunet snapped back, "I don't want to waste my time with that drivel!" 

The writer snickered. "Password stumped you, didn't it?" The private detective curled further in on himself, refusing to answer the question. "Well, good," he said imperiously, turning back to the laptop and fighting a grin off his face. "You won't read the draft until it's finished then." 

"Wait, what?" The rough slide of cloth told John that Sherlock had sat up a little violently and turned to look at him. 

"Ohh, look," John replied airily, feigning ignorance, "more reviews!" 

"John, what—" He cut himself off abruptly as John registered the slam of a car door. There was a flurry of movement and somewhere a door slammed. John frowned a bit, but went back to the archive as the doorbell downstairs rang softly. 

Mrs Hudson would send them up if it was important or circumvent it if they were stalking fans. A pair of footsteps assisted by the slight tap of a cane made its way up the stairs and John frowned slightly. The gait was completely even, not relying on the cane at all. As the sound grew clearer, he figured that the cane was a very light wood, probably not a cane at all. 

" _It's an umbrella," Benedict said darkly, dressed as Sherlock Holmes – Consulting Detective (patent pending) and glaring towards the doorway._

John arched an eyebrow and turned his chair around to face the door. "Mycroft!" he said in surprise, "hello?" 

"Hello again John," the middle-aged man said, his smile looking uncomfortable and more like a baring of teeth than anything else. "Enjoying your read?" He asked, pointing towards the open laptop screen. 

"Uh, sorry?" John asked awkwardly. 

"I see you're almost up to my fanfiction," he stated imperiously. "Make sure you review it." 

"Um, you write fanfiction for my novels?" The author asked uncomfortably. 

"Of course. I'm The Improbable One!" the elder Holmes brother commented, grinning proudly. 

John felt his stomach squirming in disgust, but he forced a pleasant smile on his face. "Yes, I just saw your fic." 

"Remember to review," Mycroft repeated pointedly. 

"Oh, I'm not sure..." He stumbled and looked away, "your fanfiction always leave me..." 

" _Sick," Benedict-as-Sherlock offered blandly. "Sad? Disappointed for the fate of the world."_

"Speechless." 

Mycroft grinned. "Yes, I'm sure it has that effect. Now, if you don't mind, I need to speak to my brother." He nodded slightly and headed up the stairs. 

John shook his head in bewilderment and picked up his cane, heading over to the kitchen and popping the kettle on. 

Mycroft's disgruntled voice drifted down the stairs from Sherlock's bedroom. "Sherlock, you can come out of the closet." 

John arched an eyebrow at this, until a very muffled and very angry reply came back: "go away, Mycroft!" He shook his head and smiled fondly, turning back to his tea. He had no doubts that Sherlock was _actually_ hiding in the closet. 

" _I bet you wouldn't mind if he was actually out of the closet," Benedict-as-Sherlock commented with a mocking smirk._

"Piss off, you," John muttered, before heading back to The Desk with the mug in his spare hand. 

When he'd last left off, Sherlock and Doctor Watson were running through-out London, chasing a cab that 'the culprit was riding in'. Satisfied that Sherlock hadn't guessed his password still and ignoring the childish arguing above him, he got back to work. 

* * *

**Chapter 9: PostIt Notes**

* * *

" _Sergeant Donovan!" Graves' voice echoed across the crime scene._

" _Sir?" The woman in question asked, coming up to him. She noticed his agitated expression and frowned._

" _We'll need those two in tomorrow," the Detective Inspector said, his voice husky and his expression bemused._

" _What two sir?" The sergeant asked, confused._

_Graves nodded his head at the retreating pair. "Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson._ " 

John smiled a bit and leant back in his chair. His final draft was finished, and now it was only to find a publishing house who wanted to publish it. He stretched his shoulders and closed the window, locking his computer with the password Sherlock had yet to figure out. 

He reached for his cane and blinked in surprise at the post-it note stuck casually on the handle. He hadn't even heard Sherlock come in. Smiling, he picked up the yellow paper and read the short note. 

_Can I read it yet?_

_SH_

John grinned. "Nope," he announced, before hobbling his way to the kitchen. He reached for the kettle to fill it up and found another yellow post-it stuck on the metal surface. Arching an eyebrow, he picked it off. 

_Why not?_

_SH_

John snorted a laugh and crumpled the note, tossing it over his shoulder towards the overspilling bin. "You can wait until it's published, Sherlock," he scolded his absent flatmate. 

He reached up for the jar of teabags, grinning when he saw another note stuck to the glass surface. 

_But I don't WANT to wait._

_SH_

He shook his head and put the jar back away. "Now you know how the normal fans feel." 

Popping the teabag in the pot, he reached next for the jar of sugar. At this stage, he wasn't even surprised. 

_I'm not "normal fans". I'm your flatmate._

_SH_

John smiled fondly. "Still, no." He paused as a thought occurred to him. "What would you have done if I decided on coffee this morning, I wonder?" 

Laughing to himself, he pulled open the cutlery drawer to grab a teaspoon. Another yellow note looked up at him. 

_Fine. But you better have it finished soon._

_SH_

Grinning, he tossed the note. "Didn't predict everything then, did you Sherlock?" He said mockingly into the air. He puttered about making his tea, then when it was nearly finished, he crossed to the fridge and pulled the door open. 

_P.S- Stupid question. You never have coffee on Tuesdays._

_SH_

He nearly dropped the bottle from laughing. 

Mug in hand and hysteria behind him, he limped out into the living room. He froze to see Mycroft Holmes sitting back in his brother's armchair, browsing a thick stack of paper. "This is very good," the man commented. 

"Sorry, what?" John asked, confused. 

"Your novel, John." Mycroft closed the manuscript and smiled. "A Study In Pink. Clever." 

"I didn't print that yet," John remarked suspiciously. 

"No, you didn't." Mycroft opened a briefcase and slid the manuscript inside. "I took the liberty of showing your incomplete draft to a few of my associates. I'll send this to Mister Murray today—though it's really more of a formality at this stage. He's very eager to get on this before it becomes a worldwide phenomenon." 

"Sorry, Mister Murray?" John asked, bewildered. 

"You'll receive a cheque from a representative of Harper Collins, probably around three this afternoon. Was there any changes you'd like to note before I send it off?" 

"Sorry, did you just say that Harper Collins is going to publish my novel?" John asked in disbelief. 

"Really, Doctor Watson, you ought to keep up. Yes, that is what I said. Now—any changes? I _am_ on a tight schedule." 

John gaped at him in disbelief, even as his mind processed the question. _I should change their names,_ he thought realistically, _it's not right that I publish something with Sherlock's name without his permission. And having the main character myself is a bit self-indulgent, isn't it?_

"Change the name," John decided. 

"Ah, of course. You'll need a nom-de-plume, what with yours being in the novel itself. Any ideas?" 

"No, I meant..." John broke off and frowned. "I was thinking, actually. Arthur Conan Doyle." 

"Arthur being your father's name, Conan the soldier who saved you in Afghanistan and Doyle is your mother's maiden name. Clever, it will do well enough." Mycroft stood abruptly then and picked up his umbrella. "Farewell, John. I'll be seeing you very soon." 

The author was left staring after his flatmate's brother in disbelief. 

" _That was easy," Benedict commented, amused._

" _Jesus Christ," the author swore, glaring at the figure angrily. "Why won't you go away?"_

_The ginger-haired man snorted. "You don't even see it yet, do it? You're not done with me yet."_

John buried his head in his hands and groaned. What would it take to get rid of this blasted upstart? He frowned as he spotted a post-it note half-hidden under the rug. Picking it up, he pursed his lips and read. 

_By the way, Mycroft's coming to see you._

_SH_

He laughed bitterly. "Thanks for the pre-warning." Groaning, he lay his head on the back of his armchair and glared at the ceiling. It took him a moment to spot the post-it note beside the light fixture. 

_You're welcome._

_SH_

* * *

**Chapter 10: Your Face**

* * *

John hesitated as he opened the door to his flatmate's bedroom. Sherlock was sprawled on the bed, his face buried in the pillow. Shifting nervously, he stepped inside and looked down at the book in his hands. He lifted the front cover and anxiously read the dedication he'd beat himself up over for the past week. 

_To my brilliant, enigmatic flat mate._

_Where would I be without you?_

He'd mentioned it once and suddenly the choice had been torn out of his hands. Was it too forward? He didn't even know if Sherlock was gay, let alone if he would be interested in John. 

Sighing, he thumbed through a few pages and found the passage he was looking for. 

" _Bravery," the well-dressed man commented, "is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?"_

_Time to prove you wrong, Dad,_ he thought, then uncapped the pen he'd brought along with him. Flicking back to the first page, he wrote a note and then set the book on Sherlock's cluttered bedside table. 

_Celebratory dinner?_

_Angelo's at 8._

He fled the flat in embarrassment after that, only pausing to accept lavish congratulations and a homemade scone from Mrs Hudson. 

He nearly convinced himself not to turn up. Nearly, but five to eight and he was pulling up in a cab down the street from the restaurant. Passing over a note, waved away the change and started the distance up the road. He stopped at the door and looked around. 

He almost turned around to leave when his phone buzzed in his pocket with a text message. 

Going to be late. 

Traffic is a nightmare. 

SH 

Shivering a little with expectation, he headed inside and requested the table he'd booked. The maître d smiled hollowly and led him to the table. A waitress appeared quickly, pouring him a glass of water. "Was there anything else I can get you?" 

"Beer," he mumbled unhappily. 

She made a note in her little book and wandered off towards the bar. He wiped his hands on his trousers and looked around nervously. 

_Benedict slid into the seat across from him. "You'll be fine," he commented. "And once the book's been around for a bit, you can start writing slash."_

" _No," the author moaned in protest, "you can't make me write fanfiction about myself and Sherlock. That is so, so wrong on too many levels to contemplate."_

_Benedict just smiled at him mysteriously. "Look on the bright side," he commented, "if this turns out to be an utter disaster, it's an interesting plot for another Mills and Boon. Poor lonely Mary sets her heart on Benedict, only to realise he's not actually interested..."_

" _Shut up," the author groaned, burying his face in his hands._

"Sir?" A voice asked in concern. 

His concentration snapped and he turned to see the waitress frowning at him in concern. "Sorry, I zoned out a bit there," he mumbled unhappily. 

She set the beer on the table beside his hand and glanced at him in confusion. "Are you ready to order yet, sir?" 

He frowned. "No, I'm waiting for someone," he told her. 

She gave him a patronizing sort of smile. "Of course, sir. I'll be back in a few minutes to check on you." 

_She thinks I've been stood up,_ he realised. He picked up the bottle of beer and glanced at his watch. _She's probably right._ He took a sullen sip and reached for the menu. 

"Sorry to have kept you waiting," came his flatmate's velvet baritone. "Have you ordered?" 

John lowered the menu to look as the chair across the table scraped back. Sherlock sank into the seat and turned to smile at him. 

John choked on his mouthful of beer and started spluttering, gasping for breath and staring in complete and utter disbelief. 

That was Benedict's face! 

Beneath the familiar mop of dark, unruly curls, the chiselled face of his most intrusive character frowned at him in concern. Everything was identical—from the perfectly bow shaped lips to the ice-blue eyes that barely even blinked as he studied him. 

"Bloody hell," he gasped, fighting against the pained lump in his throat to drag in some air. 

_Benedict gave him a patient look. "You have forgotten, I suppose," he drawled in a perfect recreation of Sherlock's voice, "that the human brain cannot actually make up someone's face? If you do not recognise it, you have observed but not seen _ ." 

"No," John managed out weakly, "I haven't ordered." 

"You should probably stick to water from now on," Sherlock advised, pushing the slippery glass towards him across the table. There was an uncomfortable sort of silence, then he said: "well, congratulations are in order. I've been given to understand that the novel is predicted to become a major success." 

"Well, I can only hope," John replied, trying not to get his hopes up too much. 

Sherlock frowned at a quiet beeping and pulled out his phone. "Don't be so modest, I hear you've got quite a following already," he murmured. His scowl deepened as he opened the text message, then settled into a blank face as he put the phone away. "Sorry about that?" 

"Am I keeping you from your girlfriend?" He asked jokingly, before his stomach sunk into his intestine. What if Sherlock actually _did_ have a girlfriend? Damn it, he was such an oblivious idiot... 

"Girlfriend?" Sherlock asked, surprised. "No. Not really my area." 

"Oh, right," John said, trying to not sound too overly-pleased. "Do you have a boyfriend, then?" Sherlock settled him with a cool look, one eyebrow arched slightly. "Which is fine, by the way," he mumbled unhappily. 

"I know it's fine," the brunet snapped defensively. 

_Oh, god,_ John thought desperately, _someone please kill me now._ "So, you've got a boyfriend, then?" 

"No," Sherlock answered quickly, before he'd even finished asking his question. 

"Right," John said, quieter, "okay. You're unattached." He nodded and met Sherlock's eyes. "Just like me." The shared ice-blue ones of his flatmate and fictional antagonist stared at him intensely. 

John went back to perusing the menu, the clink of cutlery and chatter around them only highlighting their awkward silence. "John, erm," the baritone began awkwardly, "I think you should know that I've generally considered myself married to my work..." 

"No, I'm not," John flushed in embarrassment and cut himself off, reaching for the bottle of water. "I'm just saying..." He set down the bottle of beer and frowned at it unhappily. "It's all fine. Whatever shakes your...boat..." He swallowed and picked the glass of water back up. "I'm going to shut up now." 

"Probably for the best," Sherlock mused. 

John was saved the embarrassment of further conversation by the arrival of a rotund Italian man. "Sherlock!" the man greeted in hushed excitement. He looked between them, eyes glowing. "Anything on the menu, anything you want—free. For you, and your date." 

"I'm not his date," John mumbled unhappily into his lap. 

"We'll have two of your specialty," Sherlock replied, not even glancing at the menu. "And some garlic bread to start." 

"Sorry, do you two know each other?" John asked, confused. 

"This man got me off a murder charge," the stranger said eagerly. 

John turned, bewildered, to Sherlock, who said: "This is Angelo." Angelo, of _Angelo's_ , of course. John took the hand when the owner offered it, shaking it firmly and going back to his unhappy perusal of the menu. "Three years ago," Sherlock continued, "I successfully proved to the courts that at the time of a particularly vicious triple homicide he was in a completely different part of town, carjacking." 

"House breaking," Angelo answered instantly, sounding offended. 

"Right." 

"He cleared my name," Angelo supplied, beaming at the private detective. 

"I cleared it a bit," Sherlock said dismissively. 

Angelo turned to John as he cupped a hand over the slender brunet's shoulder. "For this man, I'd have gone to prison." 

"You did go to prison," Sherlock reminded him helpfully. 

John looked between them, utterly confused. "Should I be taking notes?" He asked. 

Angelo, who was still uncomfortable at Sherlock's offhand comment, said: "I'll get a candle for the table, it's more romantic," and shuffled off. 

John nearly protested, but Sherlock's unaffected demeanour told him it would probably come across as being too much in denial. 

" _I think you should be taking notes," Benedict interrupted unhelpfully. "Either way tonight ends, this could be a wonderfully awkward dinner date between Sherlock and John."_

" _It is an awkward dinner date between Sherlock and John," the author mumbled unhappily._

" _I thought you said it wasn't a date?" Benedict teased._

" _Go away, for god's sake, just go away."_

"Are you quite alright, John?" Sherlock asked, concerned. 

"Fine," he answered. "Just...a triple homicide. Do you do much criminal work?" 

"I've been asked by concerned parties to look into certain mishandled police investigations, yes," Sherlock replied. "I only ever report the truth however." 

"Not something I can acclaim to in my line of work," John muttered. 

"No, I don't suppose it would be." 

Angelo returned with the candle and a plate of garlic bread. They filled the rest of the silence between bites with awkward small talk about their respective jobs. Finally, they finished and went home. 

John didn't want to share a taxi with his unfortunately attractive flatmate, but couldn't think of a reasonable excuse not to. Shut up in the worn interior, Sherlock asked: "how's your sister?" 

"Fine," John replied coldly. "How's your brother?" 

"Point taken." 

The silence lapsed between them. Finally, they pulled up outside 221B Baker Street, where Sherlock tossed the driver a note before John could reach for his wallet. Put out, he followed Sherlock through the stairwell and up to their shared flat. 

He sunk into the seat of The Desk ( _still in working order, ladies and gentleman_ ) and glared at the closed lid of the laptop. 

" _Relax," Benedict said warmly, "you didn't make an utter fool of yourself this time."_

" _Shut up," the author growled. "You had to bring up my spectacularly awful dating life, didn't you?"_

" _It's not awful," the ginger-haired man said warmly. "It's just a little...non-existent."_

" _You try finding someone who wants to date a man who writes Mills and Boon professionally and explicit gay porn in his spare time."_

He shut off the thought before it could go any further, lifting up the lid of his laptop and bringing it out of hibernation. An email from his new publisher sat in his inbox and his eyes grew wide as he took in the information. "Sherlock!" he yelled, strangled. 

"Yes, John?" The calm baritone resounded from the couch. 

"They want more. They want at least _two_ more Sherlock Holmes novels!" John cried in disbelief. 

"Yes, I know," Sherlock replied. 

John whirled around in his seat to see Sherlock sprawled lengthways on the couch and watching him calmly. He had kicked off his shoes and taken off the jacket and coat, leaving him in a dark purple sink shirt and a pair of tight jeans. The shirt was folded up to his elbows, exposing lean, pale forearms. It shouldn't have been as enticing as it was. 

"How?" He demanded, once his brain came back online. 

"Mycroft," Sherlock replied easily. "He texted me at dinner." 

"How does that man know everything about my novel before I know it myself?" John groaned in disbelief. 

"Mycroft knows everything," the brunet replied calmly. "He makes it his business to know." 

John sighed and glanced over his shoulder. "Two more novels. I never even thought..." He shook his head. 

"What _are_ you going to write about next?" Sherlock asked calmly. "I'd prefer you work on the new novel right away. If I have to go searching through Adult-Fanfiction-dot-Net to see what you've been up to then I'm going to be very irritable." 

"If you looked on my profile you'd save yourself...wait, what?" It hit the author halfway through his sentence exactly what Sherlock had said. Turning to his flatmate with wide eyes, he saw Sherlock arching an eyebrow. "You'd read Sherlock-John slash?" 

"Why not?" Sherlock returned calmly. "I read all your Benedict-Martin stuff, and that's essentially the same thing." 

John felt his brain turn to sludge and slip down his spine to coil low in his stomach. 

" _I like this one," Martin growled playfully, looking over Benedict's shoulder as he sat on the edge of the arm chair. "He's clever."_

" _And he reminds you a bit of me," Benedict agreed, grinning._

" _Just a bit," the other returned playfully._

John was snapped out of his musings when he felt a hand cup the back of his head and gentle lips on his own. He blinked, coming back into focus and frowning in confusion at the flatmate only centimetres away from his face. "Wha?" 

"Shut up," Sherlock said fondly, before kissing him again. 

"But," John managed out between pecks. "I didn't," he panted as the brunet made a hot trail down his jaw, "I didn't say anything." 

"You're thinking," Sherlock breathed into the hot skin of John's neck between feather-light kisses. "It's annoying." 

"I was thinking about the plot of the next novel," John improvised. 

"Oh?" Sherlock asked, pulling back to look at him. "Do tell." 

"What do you think about Chinese smugglers?" John asked. 

"They can wait until morning," the brunet grinned, drawing him into another kiss. "Now, about that scene with the riding crop..." 

**The End.**


End file.
